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双语·没有女人的男人们 第五篇 意大利拾趣[29]

所属教程:译林版·没有女人的男人们:海明威短篇小说选

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2022年04月19日

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THE road of the pass was hard and smooth and not yet dusty in the early morning.Below were the hills with oak and chestnut trees, and far away below was the sea.On the other side were snowy mountains.

We came down from the pass through wooded country.There were bags of charcoal piled beside the road, and through the trees we saw charcoal-burners'huts.It was Sunday and the road, rising and falling, but always dropping away from the altitude of the pass, went through the scrub woods and through villages.

Outside the villages there were fields with vines.The fields were brown and the vines coarse and thick.The houses were white, and in the streets the men, in their Sunday clothes, were playing bowls.Against the walls of some of the houses there were pear trees, their branches candelabraed against the white walls.The pear trees had been sprayed, and the walls of the houses were stained a metallic blue-green by the spray vapor.There were small clearings around the villages where the vines grew, and then the woods.

In a village, twenty kilometers above Spezia, there was a crowd in the square, and a young man carrying a suitcase came up to the car and asked us to take him in to Spezia.

“There are only two places, and they are occupied,”I said.We hadan old Ford coupé.

“I will ride on the outside.”

“You will be uncomfortable.”

“That makes nothing, I must go to Spezia.”

“Should we take him?”I asked Guy.

“He seems to be going anyway,”Guy said.The young man handed in a parcel through the window.

“Look after this,”he said.Two men tied his suitcase on the back of the car, above our suitcases.He shook hands with everyone, explained that to a Fascist and a man as used to traveling as himself there was no discomfort, and climbed up on the running-board on the left-hand side of the car, holding on inside, his right arm through the open window.

“You can start,”he said.The crowd waved.He waved with his free hand.

“What did he say?”Guy asked me.

“That we could start.”

“Isn't he nice?”Guy said.

The road followed a river.Across the river were mountains.The sun was taking the frost out of the grass.It was bright and cold and the air came through the open windshield.

“How do you think he likes it out there?”Guy was looking up the road.His view out of his side of the car was blocked by our guest.The young man projected from the side of the car like the fgurehead of a ship.He had turned his coat collar up and pulled his hat down and his nose looked cold in the wind.

“Maybe he'll get enough of it,”Guy said.“That's the side our bumtire's on.”

“Oh, he'd leave us if we blew out,”I said.“He wouldn't get his traveling clothes dirty.”

“Well, I don't mind him,”Guy said—“except the way he leans out on the turns.”

The woods were gone;the road had left the river to climb;the radiator was boiling;the young man looked annoyedly and suspiciously at the steam and rusty water;the engine was grinding, with both Guy's feet on the frst-speed pedal, up and up, back and forth and up, and fnally, out level.The grinding stopped, and in the new quiet there was a great churning bubbling in the radiator.We were at the top of the last range above Spezia and the sea.The road descended with short, barely rounded turns.Our guest hung out on the turns and nearly pulled the top-heavy car over.

“You can't tell him not to,”I said to Guy.“It's his sense of self-preservation.”

“The great Italian sense.”

“The greatest Italian sense.”

We came down around curves, through deep dust, the dust powdering the olive trees.Spezia spread below along the sea.The road flattened outside the town.Our guest put his head in the window.

“I want to stop.”

“Stop it,”I said to Guy.

We slowed up, at the side of the road.The young man got down, went to the back of the car and untied the suitcase.

“I stop here, so you won't get into trouble carrying passengers,”hesaid.“My package.”

I handed him the package.He reached in his pocket.

“How much do I owe you?”

“Nothing.”

“Why not?”

“I don't know,”I said.

“Then thanks,”the young man said, not“thank you,”or“thank you very much,”or“thank you a thousand times,”all of which you formerly said in Italy to a man when he handed you a time-table or explained about a direction.The young man uttered the lowest form of the word“thanks”and looked after us suspiciously as Guy started the car.I waved my hand at him.He was too dignifed to reply.We went on into Spezia.

“That's a young man that will go a long way in Italy,”I said to Guy.

“Well,”said Guy,“he went twenty kilometers with us.”

A MEAL IN SPEZIA

We came into Spezia looking for a place to eat.The street was wide and the houses high and yellow.We followed the tram-track into the centre of town.On the walls of the houses were stenciled eye-bugging portraits of Mussolini, with hand-painted“vivas”,the double V in black paint with drippings of paint down the wall.Side-streets went down to the harbor.It was bright and the people were all out for Sunday.The stone paving had been sprinkled and there were damp stretches in the dust.We went close to the curb to avoid a train.

“Let's eat somewhere simple,”Guy said.

We stopped opposite two restaurant signs.We were standing across the street and I was buying the papers.The two restaurants were side by side.A woman standing in the doorway of one smiled at us and we crossed the street and went in.

It was dark inside and at the back of the room three girls were sitting at a table with an old woman.Across from us, at another table, sat a sailor.He sat there neither eating nor drinking.Further back, a young man in a blue suit was writing at a table.His hair was pomaded and shining and he was very smartly dressed and clean-cut looking.

The light came through the doorway, and through the window where vegetables, fruit, steaks, and chops were arranged in a show-case.A girl came and took our order and another girl stood in the doorway.We noticed that she wore nothing under her house dress.The girl who took our order put her arm around Guy's neck while we were looking at the menu.There were three girls in all, and they all took turns going and standing in the doorway.The old woman at the table in the back of the room spoke to them and they sat down again with her.

There was no doorway leading from the room except into the kitchen.A curtain hung over it.The girl who had taken our order came in from the kitchen with spaghetti.She put it on the table and brought a bottle of red wine and sat down at the table.

“Well,”I said to Guy,“you wanted to eat at some place simple.”

“This isn't simple, this is complicated.”

“What do you say?”asked the girl.“Are you Germans?”

“South Germans,”I said.“The South Germans are a gentle, lovable people.”

“Don't understand,”she said.

“What's the mechanics of this place?”Guy asked.“Do I have to let her put her arm around my neck?”

“Certainly,”I said.“Mussolini has abolished brothels.This is a restaurant.”

The girl wore a one-piece dress.She leaned forward against the table and put her hands on her breasts and smiled.She smiled better on one side than on the other and turned the good side toward us.The charm of the good side had been enhanced by some event which had smoothed the other side of her nose in, as warm wax can be smoothed.Her nose, however, did not look like warm wax.It was very cold and frmed, only smoothed in.“You like me?”she asked Guy.

“He adores you,”I said.“But he doesn't speak Italian.”

“Ich spreche Deutsch,”she said, and stroked Guy's hair.

“Speak to the lady in your native tongue, Guy.”

“Where do you come from?”asked the lady.

“Potsdam.”

“And you will stay here now for a little while?”

“In this so dear Spezia?”I asked.

“Tell her we have to go,”said Guy.“Tell her we are very ill, and have no money.”

“My friend is a misogynist,”I said,“an old German misogynist.”

“Tell him I love him.”

I told him.

“Will you shut your mouth and get us out of here?”Guy said.The lady had placed another arm around his neck.“Tell him he is mine,”shesaid.I told him.

“Will you get us out of here?”

“You are quarreling,”the lady said.“You do not love one another.”

“We are Germans,”I said proudly,“old South Germans.”

“Tell him he is a beautiful boy,”the lady said.Guy is thirty-eight and takes some pride in the fact that he is taken for a traveling salesman in France.“You are a beautiful boy,”I said.

“Who says so?”Guy asked,“you or her?”

“She does.I'm just your interpreter.Isn't that what you got me in on this trip for?”

“I'm glad it's her,”said Guy.“I don't want to have to leave you here too.”

“I don't know.Spezia's a lovely place.”

“Spezia,”the lady said.“You are talking about Spezia.”

“Lovely place,”I said.

“It is my country,”she said.“Spezia is my home and Italy is my country.”

“She says that Italy is her country.”

“Tell her it looks like her country,”Guy said.

“What have you for dessert?”I asked.

“Fruit,”she said.“We have bananas.”

“Bananas are all right,”Guy said.“They've got skins on.”

“Oh, he takes bananas,”the lady said.She embraced Guy.

“What does she say?”he asked, keeping his face out of the way.

“She is pleased because you take bananas.”

“Tell her I don't take bananas.”

“The signor does not take bananas.”

“Ah,”said the lady, crestfallen,“he doesn't take bananas.”

“Tell her I take a cold bath every morning,”Guy said.

“The signor takes a cold bath every morning.”

“No understand,”the lady said.

Across from us, the property sailor had not moved.No one in the place paid any attention to him.

“We want the bill,”I said.

“Oh, no.You must stay.”

“Listen,”the clean-cut young man said from the table where he was writing,“let them go.These two are worth nothing.”

The lady took my hand.“You won't stay?You won't ask him to stay?”

“We have to go,”I said.“We have to get to Pisa, or if possible, Firenze, tonight.We can amuse ourselves in those cities at the end of the day.It is now the day.In the day we must cover distance.”

“To stay a little while is nice.”

“To travel is necessary during the light of day.”

“Listen,”the clean-cut young man said.“Don't bother to talk with these two.I tell you they are worth nothing and I know.”

“Bring us the bill,”I said.She brought the bill from the old woman and went back and sat at the table.Another girl came in from the kitchen.She walked the length of the room and stood in the doorway.

“Don't bother with these two,”the clean-cut young man said in a wearied voice.“Come and eat.They are worth nothing.”

We paid the bill and stood up.All the girls, the old woman, and theclean-cut young man sat down at the table together.The property sailor sat with his head in his hands.No one had spoken to him all the time we were at lunch.The girl brought us our change that the old woman counted out for her and went back to her place at the table.We left a tip on the table and went out.When we were seated in the car ready to start, the girl came out and stood in the door.We started and I waved to her.She did not wave, but stood there looking after us.

AFTER THE RAIN

It was raining hard when we passed through the suburbs of Genoa and, even going very slowly behind the tram-cars and the motor trucks, liquid mud splashed onto the sidewalks, so that people stepped into the doorways as they saw us coming.In San Pier d'Arena, the industrial suburb outside of Genoa, there is a wide street with two car-tracks and we drove down the centre to avoid sending the mud on to the men going home from work.On our left was the Mediterranean.There was a big sea running and waves broke and the wind blew the spray against the car.A riverbed that, when we had passed, going into Italy, had been wide, stony and dry, was running brown and up to the banks.The brown water discolored the sea and as the waves thinned and cleared in breaking, the light came through the yellow water and the crests, detached by the wind, blew across the road.

A big car passed us, going fast, and a sheet of muddy water rose up and over our wind-shield and radiator.The automatic wind-shield cleaner moved back and forth, spreading the flm over the glass.We stopped andate lunch at Sestri.There was no heat in the restaurant and we kept our hats and coats on.We could see the car outside, through the window.It was covered with mud and was stopped beside some boats that had been pulled up beyond the waves.In the restaurant you could see your breath.

The pasta asciutta was good;the wine tasted of alum, and we poured water into it.Afterward the waiter brought beefsteak and fried potatoes.A man and a woman sat at the far end of the restaurant.He was middle-aged and she was young and wore black.All during the meal she would blow out her breath in the cold damp air.The man would look at it and shake his head.They ate without talking and the man held her hand under the table.She was good-looking and they seemed very sad.They had a traveling-bag with them.

We had the papers and I read the account of the Shanghai fghting aloud to Guy.After the meal, he left with the waiter in search for a place which did not exist in the restaurant, and I cleaned off the wind-shield, the lights and the license plates with a rag.Guy came back and we backed the car out and started.The waiter had taken him across the road and into an old house.The people in the house were suspicious and the waiter had remained with Guy to see nothing was stolen.

“Although I don't know how, me not being a plumber, they expected me to steal anything,”Guy said.

As we came up on a headland beyond the town, the wind struck the car and nearly tipped it over.

“It's good, it blows us away from the sea,”Guy said.

“Well,”I said,“they drowned Shelley somewhere along here.”

“That was down by Viareggio,”Guy said.“Do you remember whatwe came to this country for?”

“Yes,”I said,“but we didn't get it.”

“We'll be out of it tonight.”

“If we can get past Ventimiglia.”

“We'll see.I don't like to drive this coast at night.”It was early afternoon and the sun was out.Below, the sea was blue with whitecaps running toward Savona.Back, beyond the cape, the brown and blue waters joined.Out ahead of us, a tramp steamer was going up the coast.

“Can you still see Genoa?”Guy asked.

“Oh, yes.”

“That next big cape ought to put it out of sight.”

“We'll see it a long time yet.I can still see Portofno Cape behind it.”

Finally we could not see Genoa.I looked back as we came out and there was only the sea, and below, in the bay, a line of beach with fshing-boats and above, on the side of the hill, a town and then capes far down the coast.

“It's gone now,”I said to Guy.

“Oh, it's been gone a long time now.”

“But we couldn't be sure till we got way out.”

There was a sign with a picture of an S-turn and Svolta Pericolosa.The road curved around the headland and the wind blew through the crack in the wind-shield.Below the cape was a fat stretch beside the sea.The wind had dried the mud and the wheels were beginning to lift dust.On the fat road we passed a Fascist riding a bicycle, a heavy revolver in a holster on his back.He held the middle of the road on his bicycle and we turned out for him.He looked up at us as we passed.Ahead there was a railwaycrossing, and as we came toward it the gates went down.

As we waited, the Fascist came up on his bicycle.The train went by and Guy started the engine.

“Wait,”the bicycle man shouted from behind the car.“Your number's dirty.”

I got out with a rag.The number had been cleaned at lunch.

“You can read it,”I said.

“You think so?”

“Read it.”

“I cannot read it.It is dirty.”

I wiped it off with the rag.

“How's that?”

“Twenty-fve lire.”

“What?”I said.“You could have read it.It's only dirty from the state of the roads.”

“You don't like Italian roads?”

“They are dirty.”

“Fifty lire.”He spat in the road.“Your car is dirty and you are dirty too.”

“Good.And give me a receipt with your name.”

He took out a receipt book, made in duplicate, and perforated, so one side could be given to the customer, and the other side flled in and kept as a stub.There was no carbon to record what the customer's ticket said.

“Give me ffty lire.”

He wrote in indelible pencil, tore out the slip and handed it to me.I read it.

“This is for twenty-fve lire.”

“A mistake,”he said, and changed the twenty-fve to ffty.

“And now the other side.Make it ffty in the part you keep.”

He smiled a beautiful Italian smile and wrote something on the receipt stub, holding it so I could not see.

“Go on,”he said,“before your number gets dirty again.”

We drove for two hours after it was dark and slept in Mentone that night.It seemed very cheerful and clean and sane and lovely.We had driven from Ventimiglia to Pisa and Florence, across the Romagna to Rimini, back through Forlì,Imola, Bologna, Parma, Piacenza and Genoa, to Ventimiglia again.The whole trip had only taken ten days.Naturally, in such a short trip, we had no opportunity to see how things were with the country or the people.

隘口的路坚硬、平坦,清晨车辆少,尘土尚未扬起。脚下是连绵起伏的丘陵,上面满是橡树和栗树,远方则是大海。另一侧是白雪皑皑的巍峨大山。

我们离开隘口,穿过一片林区下山。路边堆着一袋一袋的木炭,透过树木看得见烧炭人的小屋。这天是星期天。路面起起伏伏,但我们离高处的隘口越来越远,一路向下行驶,穿过一片片的矮树丛和一座座村庄。

每座村庄的外围都有成片的葡萄园,葡萄藤又粗又密,使大地成了棕褐色。村子里,住房是白颜色的,街上有几个男人穿着体面的衣服在玩滚木球。有的人家种着些梨树,枝丫叉开,紧挨着白颜色的墙壁。梨树喷了杀虫剂,把白墙也弄脏了,留下了金属般的青绿色污痕。村子四周被小片小片的田地所环绕,种的有葡萄,也有各种树木。

在距离斯培西亚[30]二十公里的山上有一座村庄。进了村子,广场上聚集着一群人,一个年轻人拎着手提箱走到我们的车前请求搭车,让我们带他到斯培西亚去。

“车上只有两个位子,都有人坐。”我说。我们开的是一辆旧式的福特牌小轿车。

“我站在车门外就是了。”

“那样会很不舒服的。”

“舒服不舒服无所谓。我必须到斯培西亚去。”

“让他搭车吗?”我问盖伊。

“看来他非搭不可了。”盖伊说。年轻人把一个小包塞进了车窗。

“照看下这个。”他说。过来两个男子,把他的手提箱摞在车后我们的行李箱之上,用绳子捆牢。年轻人跟大家一一握手,对众人说他身为法西斯党员,又经常出门,这样乘车并没有什么不舒服的。说完,他踩到汽车左侧的踏板上,把右胳膊伸进开着的车窗,钩牢车身。

“可以开车啦!”他说。那群人向他挥手告别,他也频频挥动那只空着的手。

“他说什么来着?”盖伊问我。

“他说可以开车啦。”

“他站好了吗?”盖伊说。

我们沿着河岸迤逦前行。河对面是巍巍群山。太阳晒干了草叶上的白霜。天气晴朗而寒冷,阵阵寒风从敞开的窗户刮进了车里。

“你觉得他站在车外是什么滋味?”盖伊抬头望着前边的路面。我们的那个乘客挡住了他那一侧窗外的视线。那位年轻人站在车外,歪着身子,活像一尊船头雕像。他竖起衣领,压低帽檐,鼻子在寒风中看上去冻得不行。

“也许他快受不了了。”盖伊说,“他站的那侧的轮胎不好使。”

“哦,汽车一爆胎,他就会走掉的。”我说,“他肯定不愿帮着修车而弄脏他的那身出门的衣服。”

“我倒不介意他搭便车,”盖伊说,“只是怕他在转弯处斜着身子会有危险。”

过了林区,我们离开河岸开始爬坡。汽车的水箱开了锅。年轻人望着水箱里的蒸汽和带着一股锈味的水,神色气恼和疑虑。盖伊两脚发力,把油门踩到底,引擎嘎吱嘎吱直响,汽车往高处爬啊爬,退回来再往前爬,最后终于到了平路上。引擎不再嘎吱嘎吱响了,可是嘎吱声一停,却听见了水箱咕嘟咕嘟的声音,水箱里的水沸腾着,冒着气泡。这时我们正在斯培西亚和大海上方最后那段路的至高处。汽车开始下山,一路都是急转弯。转弯的时候,我们的这位乘客就吊在车上,几次都差点儿没把头重脚轻的汽车弄翻。

“你不好说他,”我对盖伊说,“他这是出于一种自我保护意识。”

“了不起的意大利式的自我保护意识。”

“最了不起的意大利式的自我保护意识。”

我们沿着盘山路蜿蜒下行,车轮碾在厚厚的尘土上,车后扬起的灰尘落在橄榄树上。山脚下就是斯培西亚,沿着海岸而建。到了城外,道路变得平坦了。我们的乘客把头探进车窗。

“我想要下车。”

“停车!”我对盖伊说。

汽车减速,停到了路边。年轻人下了车,走到车后解下自己的手提箱。

“我在这儿下车,是怕你们因为私自搭载乘客而遇到麻烦。”他说,“请把我的包递给我。”

我把包递给了他。他把手伸进衣袋去掏钱。

“需要给你们多少钱?”

“一分钱也不要。”

“为什么不要?”

“我不知道。”我说。

“那就谢谢喽。”年轻人说。他并没有说“谢谢你们”“非常感谢你们”或者“万分感谢你们”。过去在意大利,谁只要递给你一张时刻表,或者为你指指路,你都会这样说,可是这个年轻人仅用了最简单的“谢谢”。盖伊把车开走时,他还用狐疑的目光望着我们的背影。我冲他挥手告别,而他架子大得连理也不理。之后,我们继续驱车向着斯培西亚进发。

“那个年轻人在意大利还要走很长的路。”我对盖伊说。“哦,”盖伊说,“他搭乘咱们的车,走了有二十公里。”

斯培西亚就餐记

一开进斯培西亚,我们就找地方吃饭。这儿街道宽敞,房屋很高,漆成黄颜色。顺着电车车轨,我们把汽车开到了市中心。屋墙上随处可见墨索里尼鼓着一双金鱼眼的画像,手写的vivas[31]中两个V的墨汁顺着墙壁直流。那儿有几条偏街通往港口。天气晴朗,由于是星期天,人们纷纷走上了街头。铺石的路面上洒了水,尘土中仍有片片湿痕。我们紧靠街边行车,避开了电车。

“找个餐馆简单吃点儿吧。”盖伊说。

我们把车停在了两家餐馆的招牌对面,隔着街道站了会儿,我掏钱买了份报纸。那两家餐馆挨着。一家餐馆的门口站着个女子直冲着我们笑,于是我们就穿过马路进了那家餐馆。

里面黑黢黢的,房间的深处有三个女孩和一个老太婆守着一张桌子坐着。正对着我们有个水手坐在饭桌前,既没有吃饭也没有喝酒。再往后,有个身穿蓝西装的年轻人正伏在桌子上写字,头发油光锃亮,衣冠楚楚,仪表堂堂。

日光从门道和窗户照进来,窗户那儿有个陈列柜,柜子里陈列有蔬菜、水果、牛排和猪排。一个女孩走上前请我们点菜。另有一个女孩站到了门口,我们留意到她外边穿了件衣服,里面却什么也没有穿。正当我们看菜单的时候,请我们点菜的那个女孩伸出粉臂勾住了盖伊的脖子。一共有三个女孩,她们轮流出去在门口站着。坐在屋子深处的老太婆冲她们说了句什么,她们就都回到老太婆身边坐下了。

大堂里只有通向厨房的一扇门,门上挂着个帘子。那个请我们点菜的女孩从厨房端过来一些通心粉放在桌子上,还拎来了一瓶红酒,然后坐在了桌旁。

“瞧,”我对盖伊说,“你本来是想找地方简单吃点儿的。”

“这顿饭并不简单,而是很复杂。”

“你们在说什么呀?”女孩问,“你们是德国人吧?”

“是南德人。”我说,“南德人温柔体贴,很讨人喜欢哟。”

“我听不懂你说的话。”女孩说。

“这地方怎么回事?”盖伊问,“非得让她用胳膊搂我的脖子吗?”

“当然喽。”我说,“墨索里尼取缔了妓院,并没有取缔这样的餐馆嘛。”

女孩穿着件连衣裙,身体前倾靠在桌上,两手捂住酥胸,笑吟吟的。她笑的时候,一边脸比较好看,另一边不太好看,于是她便把好看的那一边冲着我们。与此同时,不知什么使她的那一侧鼻翼如同温热的蜡被用刀抹平了一样光滑,这使得她这半边脸魅力倍增。不过,她的鼻子看上去毕竟不像是温热的蜡,显得冰冷、坚毅,只是稍微显得光滑一些罢了。“你喜欢我吗?”她问盖伊。

“他喜欢极了。”我说,“遗憾的是他不会说意大利语。”

“那我就说德语喽。”[32]她用手捋着盖伊的头发说。

“你就用你的母语跟这个女孩说吧,盖伊。”我说。

“你是从哪里来的?”女孩问。

“波茨坦[33]。”

“你们打算在这里待一阵子吧?”

“你是指在斯培西亚这块风水宝地?”我问。

“你告诉她,就说咱们必须走,”盖伊对我说,“就说咱们身上有病,口袋里没钱。”

“我的朋友不喜欢女人,”我说,“他是个老派德国人,不喜欢女人。”

“你告诉他,就说我爱他。”女孩说。

我把女孩的话翻译给了盖伊听。

“你能不能闭上你的嘴,咱们离开这里?”盖伊说。

女孩的另一条胳膊也搂住了他的脖子。“告诉他,就说他属于我。”只听她说。我把这话翻译了过去。

“你能不能让我们赶快离开这里?”盖伊说。

“你们在拌嘴,”女孩说,“看来你们之间并不友好。”

“我们是德国人,”我不无自豪地说,“我们是老派的南德人。”

“你跟他说,他是个漂亮的男孩子。”女孩说。盖伊都三十八岁了,想不到在这里竟被当成了法国流动推销员那样的潇洒人物受到女性青睐,这叫他不由产生了几分自豪感。“你是个漂亮的男孩子。”我对他说。

“这是谁的话,”盖伊问,“你的还是她的?”

“这是她说的,我只不过充当你们的翻译罢了。这趟旅行,这不就是你想让我担任的角色吗?”

“很高兴这是她的话。”盖伊说,“我可不想在这里跟你各奔东西。”

“我不知道。斯培西亚是块风水宝地呀。”

“斯培西亚?”女孩说,“你在说斯培西亚?”

“风水宝地呀。”我对她说。

“这儿是我的家乡,”她说,“斯培西亚是我的故乡,而意大利是我的祖国。”

“她说意大利是她的祖国。”

“告诉她,意大利一看就像是她的祖国。”盖伊说。

“你们有什么甜点?”我问。

“有水果。”女孩说,“我们这里有香蕉。”

“香蕉很好,”盖伊说,“香蕉有皮。”

“哦,他喜欢吃香蕉!”女孩说着,又搂紧了盖伊。

“她说什么?”盖伊把脸扭开,问道。

“你喜欢吃香蕉,这叫她很高兴。”

“告诉她,我不喜欢吃香蕉。”

“这位先生不喜欢吃香蕉。”

“哦,”女孩顿时像霜打的茄子一样蔫了下来,说道,“原来他不喜欢吃呀。”

“告诉她,我每天早晨洗冷水澡。”盖伊说。

“这位先生每天早晨洗冷水澡。”

“这叫人不可理解。”女孩说。

这期间,我们对面坐的那个水手动也不动,活像个摆设。餐馆里的人谁也没去注意他。

“我们要结账了。”我说道。

“别急,你们还是留下来吧。”

“听我说,”那个伏在桌上写字的仪表堂堂的年轻男子说道,“让他们走吧。不值得在他俩身上花时间。”

女孩拉住我的手。“难道你们就不肯留下?你就不能叫他留下来吗?”

“我们必须走了。”我说,“我们要到比萨[34]去,如果可能的话,还要连夜赶到佛罗伦萨[35]去。到了晚上,我们要在那些城市里娱乐放松一下。现在是白天,趁着天亮我们还要赶路呢。”

“哪怕再待一会儿也好嘛。”

“趁白天赶路要紧。”

“听我说,”那个仪表堂堂的年轻男子说,“别跟他俩啰唆了。我不是说了不值得在他俩身上花时间吗。我心里是有数的。”

“请把我们的账单拿来吧!”我说。女孩去老太婆那儿拿来了账单,然后又回到桌边坐下。另一个女孩从厨房里出来,穿过大堂,站在了门口。

“别跟他俩费口舌了,”仪表堂堂的年轻男子厌烦地说,“你们来吃饭吧。不值得在他们身上花时间。”

我们付了饭钱,站起了身。那几个女孩和那个老太婆,以及那个仪表堂堂的年轻男子坐下来吃饭。那个摆设一般的水手两手抱头坐着,我们进餐的时候没人跟他说过一句话。老太婆把应该找的零钱交给那个女孩,她把钱送过来后又回到了他们的餐桌旁。我们在桌子上留了些小费,走出了餐馆。当我们上了车准备动身时,那个女孩来到了门口。汽车启动了,我向她挥手告别。她没有挥手,只是呆呆地站在那儿目送我们。

雨后

车开到热那亚[36]的郊区时,天降大雨。尽管我们跟在电车和卡车后面把车开得很慢,但还是把泥水溅到了人行道上,行人见我们过来就急忙躲进门里去了。热那亚市郊工业区的圣皮埃尔竞技场那儿路宽,是个双车道,我们就驾车在马路中间行驶,避免把泥水溅到下班回家的人身上。马路的左边就是地中海,辽阔的大海波涛汹涌,海风将浪花都吹到了我们的车身上。我们进入意大利时,国境线那儿有条河,河道很宽,河床干涸,满是鹅卵石。那条河到了这里,河水满得都快漫上岸了,很混浊。混浊的河水流进大海,使海水都变了颜色。海水冲上岸,化为碎小的浪花时,才变淡变清。光线透进混浊的水里,一阵风吹来,就会有发黄的海水和细浪冲到马路上。

一辆大型轿车疾驰而过,把许多泥水溅在了我们的挡风玻璃和引擎盖上。自动挡风玻璃刷子来回摆动,把那泥水抹得满玻璃都是。我们停了车在塞斯特里餐馆吃饭。餐馆里没有暖气,我们吃饭时没摘帽子,也没脱外套。透过窗户可以看见外边我们的汽车,见车身上溅满了泥浆,旁边有几艘被拖上岸以避风浪的小船。在餐馆里,你还可以看见你自己呼出的热气。

意大利通心粉味道很好。葡萄酒里有一股白矾味,我们往里掺了些水。吃过面,侍者端来了牛排和炸土豆。远处那头坐着一男一女。男的已入中年,女的年轻,穿一身黑衣。吃饭时,女的老是对着又潮又冷的空气呼热气,男的见了直摇头。二人吃东西时一言不发,男的伸手在桌下拉着女孩的手。她长得很好看,二人满面愁容,旁边放着他们的旅行包。

我们随身带着报纸,于是我就把有关上海战况的报道念给盖伊听。饭后,他留下来向侍者询问一个餐馆里根本没有的地方。我用一块抹布把挡风玻璃、车灯以及车牌擦干净。盖伊回来后,我们把车倒出车位,起程上路了。刚才侍者领他穿过马路,走进一幢旧房子。那里的人起了疑心,于是侍者就和他一道留下,让那儿的人看看,并没有什么东西被偷。

“我也不知道是怎么回事,也许因为我不是管道工吧,他们就怀疑我偷东西。”盖伊说。

出了城,我们到了一个海岬,那儿的风大,差点儿没把我们的车刮翻。

“幸亏这风是从海上往陆地上吹的。”盖伊说。

“哦,”我说,“雪莱[37]就是在这里附近什么地方遇到大风才船毁人亡的。”

“他出事的地点在维亚雷焦那边。”盖伊说,“你还记得咱们来这个地区的初衷吗?”

“记得,”我说,“可是咱们并没有如愿。”

“今晚就要开出这块地方了。”

“但愿能平平安安开过文蒂米利亚[38]。”

“看情况吧。在海边行车时,我不喜欢走夜路。”这时中午刚过,太阳出来了。下面,海水一片湛蓝,白白的浪潮翻滚着涌向萨沃纳[39]。后面,在岬角那儿,混浊的河水和湛蓝的海水交汇在一起。前面,有一艘远洋货轮正向岸边驶来。

“你还能看见热那亚吗?”盖伊问。

“还能,还看得见。”

“一过前边的大岬角就看不见了。”

“我们还能看见它好一会儿,现在连它后边的波托菲诺海角都还看得见。”

最后,终于看不见热那亚了。当热那亚从视野中消失时,回首望去,只能看得见茫茫的大海,看得见海湾里和海岸线边停泊的渔船,看得见山腰上的一个小镇以及远处几个傍海矗立的海岬。

“现在看不见了。”我对盖伊说。“哦,早就看不见了。”

“等我们找到出路离开了才能肯定。”

前边有一个路标,上面有S形弯道的标志以及“弯道危险”[40]的提示。绕过海岬,海风从挡风玻璃的裂口直向车里灌。海岬下面则是一片狭长的平地,紧靠着海边。海风把这儿的泥浆吹干,车轮碾过时扬起一股尘云。在平坦的公路上行驶时我们同一个骑自行车的法西斯分子擦身而过。那家伙身挎一支带枪套的沉甸甸的左轮手枪,骑车时霸住路中央,我们只好走外道躲他。我们从旁边驶过时,他抬头看了我们一眼。前方有个铁路闸口,我们往那儿开时闸口的栏杆却放下了。

我们等着放行,那个法西斯分子骑车赶了过来。火车过去后,盖伊发动了汽车。

“等一等,”那家伙从后边喊了一声,“你们的车牌脏了。”

我拿着抹布下了车。吃午饭时刚擦过车牌。

“可以看得清呀。”我说。

“你这么认为?”

“看啊。”

“车牌是脏的。反正我看不清。”

我用抹布擦了擦。

“现在怎么样?”

“罚款二十五里拉。”

“什么?”我说,“明明可以看得清呀。只是路况不好,才脏了一点儿罢了。”

“你不喜欢意大利的道路?”

“这儿的路的确很脏。”

“那就罚五十里拉。”他朝地上啐了一口说,“你们的车脏,你们的人也脏。”

“好吧。给我张收据,签上你的名字。”

他掏出收据本,一式两份,中间打着眼的那种,一份给被罚款人,一份填写后留作存根。被罚款人的收据上写有什么,存根上却不留底。

“给我五十里拉。”

他用消不掉笔迹的铅笔填写了收据,撕下来交给我。我看了看。

“这是二十五里拉的收据。”

“写错了。”他说完把二十五里拉改写成了五十里拉。

“另一份也应该一样。你留的存根上也应该写五十里拉。”

他堆起一脸意大利式的迷人的微笑,在存根上写了些什么,遮遮掩掩地拿在手里,让我看不清楚。

“快走吧,”他说,“趁你的号牌没有再次弄脏。”

天黑后我们又赶了两个小时的路,当晚在蒙托内[41]住宿。旅馆的环境非常惬意、干净、舒适,叫人心情舒畅。随后,我们去了文蒂米利亚,再从那儿驱车前往比萨和佛罗伦萨,经罗马涅[42]到里米尼[43],拐回头相继经过弗利[44]、伊莫拉[45]、博洛尼亚[46]、帕尔马[47]、皮亚琴察[48]和热那亚,又返回到文蒂米利亚。这趟旅行,全程只用了十天。这么短的时间,我们自然无缘了解各地的风土人情以及百姓的生活状况。

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